Shadow Diamond Academy
by Firebird'sDaughter
Summary: Sherlock thinks he knows everything, but someone close to him has a secret - one dangerous enough to scare Sherlock Holmes. But when the unthinkable happens during a bombing, the secret starts to come out, effecting not just Sherlock, but others well. Because this isn't just one person's secret, and now? It's out for blood. (M because I'm a paranoid lunatic, several OCs)
1. Prologue: Mother Is Watching

_Here's the prologue/teaser thing. I used an online translator for the other languages, so that's why they probably only loosely mean what I say they mean. This is totally insane take on a certain character's backstory, and will feature a number of Original Characters. I like this prologue well enough._

* * *

It couldn't be said that the whip looked alive in her hands. Rather, it was like it was another appendage, an extension of her body. She cracked it without even looking, with the ease of a woman who had done this all her life, not even batting a heavily mascaraed eyelash when the man she was beating screamed. She spoke in Portuguese, slowly, calmly. Though her accent was almost flawless, there was a trace of something else in it.

"Nós somos após as perguntas óbvias." She told him. _We are past the obvious questions._ "Agora, nós obtemos ao mistério real." _Now, we get to the real mystery._ "Não porque você se encontrou, não porque você estola. Quem você é, e quem você está trabalhando para. Quem o emitiu?" _Not why you lied, not why you stole. Who you are, and who you are working for. Who sent you?_

When the man made no answer, she slashed the whip across his back again, bringing forth another, weak, terrified shriek. She coiled the braided leather around her hands, frowning. Then she reached over, and grabbed his chin, making him look into her light brown eyes.

"Eu sou a Matriz aqui. Responda a minhas perguntas." _I am the Mother here. Answer my questions_.

When he only babbled nonsense, she groaned, tossing his face away, and tucking a piece of hair away from her own. She was a tall, beautiful woman, with long hair that spiraled about her face in dark brown curls. There were slight streaks of gray at the roots, but it was the only indication of age on her. Her face was wrinkle free, perhaps through her clever application of make-up or perhaps, as many believed, by sheer force of will. Her make-up was indeed heavy, dark and striking as her figure and the coldness of her expression. She was not dressed for what she was doing, in a black suit and pencil skirt that reached her knees, and heels that added another two inches to her height. She wore a black leather glove on her right hand, the one not wielding the whip, and the left glove was tucked into the breast pocket of her suit jacket. She had only ever worn black since the night her predecessor died, and no one was brave enough to tell her to stop. She folded her arms, tapping the ornate handle of her whip on her upper arm, staring thoughtfully at the bound man, and the others knew something was in store.

When the Mother was thoughtful, it rarely turned out well for those who defied her.

"Rosa." She said, switching to Dutch, "Haal me mijn mes." _Fetch me my knife._

Rosa was just leaving when another man came in, tall, thin, and dark skinned.

"My Mother," He panted, as if he had just run up stairs, "I must speak with you."

She sighed loudly, dropping into the language that had to be her first one, for her voice rang without the hint of another accent in it: German.

"Gerade als ich ernst erhalte, immer die unterbrechungen!" _Just when I am getting serious, always the interruptions!_

The man stepped towards her, bowing his head. He spoke English with a heavy, almost cockney accent.

"My Mother, a scout sent this." He held out a picture to her. It was a photograph of a British newspaper that read 'Sherlock Holmes Saves The Day Again!' She gazed at it, frowning, then her eyes lighted on a figure in the corner of the photo.

"Ah." She said, in German accented English. "How wonderful. We can have a little family reunion." She looked up. "Jacob." A blonde man in the corner moved. "Go." He was out of the room before the word had even finished echoing. She turned back to her victim, a smile spreading across her face for the first time in over twenty years.

"It will be so good to see you again, my dear twin brother..."


	2. The Unthinkable

_So. So. Sooooooo..._

_I gotta say, I'm not a huge fan of this chapter. Parts are good, but... I dunno. I just don't like it all._

_Yes, there are a few added DIs. Astley and Gregson have their (last) names pulled from the books - Gregson, we know from Lestrade's mention, at least exists in this universe. So I added him and Astley. Harding just sort of came to me when I wrote a small thing about Lestrade preemptively cleaning his office: she walked in and offered some advice, and that was that. She ended up staying. None of these three have very plot-important backgrounds that won't be revealed in this. They' don't need in-depth introductions. It's also book-cannon that Sherlock respects at least Gregson, and I ended up extending that to Astley, who kept his habit of compulsive arresting from Conan Doyle's stories._

_Please let me know if you want more. I may post a second chapter to give you more to work with, but if no one thinks they'll read this (and based on this first chapter, **I** might not read it, but that's me judging my own work), I'll just leave it._

* * *

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was not having a good day, and that was an understatement.

"Exactly **how** many of these things have gone off so far?"

"About five." Detective Inspector Nathan Astley replied tiredly, coming over just in time to hear the rhetorical question. The other man ran a hand through his dirty blonde hair that was starting to turn white at the roots. He was a broad shouldered man, bigger than Lestrade, with darting blue eyes. Scotland Yard was fairly evenly divided between those who liked DI Astley and those who couldn't stand him. On the one hand, he was solid, fiercely loyal, and dependable-on the other, he had a history of inquiries in his record, and a penchant for arresting **everyone** at a crime scene; no matter **who** they were. Despite all of it, Lestrade counted himself in with the fifty percent that liked the large, occasionally rude, DI. Astley was a former soldier, and he would always be there when you needed him; he had once stoically informed Lestrade 'I never left my men.' Right now, Astley's strong, relaxed nature was a blessing-not to mention his experience with explosives. "Three went off like normal, bomb squads got to two. And one of those still went have off. Lost two good officers tonight; another's still in the ICU." Lestrade gritted his teeth. With a threat like this, a crippled bomb squad was **not** what they needed. An anonymous call had been made to Scotland Yard claiming to have planted ten bombs in ten different rooms of the London City Hall, and they only had so long to find them all. They'd hoped it was a prank.

It had turned out not to be.

Astley's radio bleeped, a female voice coming on over the static.

"Nate, Greg, we're on our way. What's the situation?"

"It's tense, Hannah." Astley responded. Hannah Harding was the only female DI in their precinct, a small, blonde woman who liked clothes, high heels, hair, and could shoot a grape off a dog's head from a hundred yards away.

"Wow, Astley calling something tense. Must be bad." Said another voice, this one male. Christian Gregson had a way of saying things that made everyone like him-it was something in the tone of his voice, but it was a skill that Astley absolutely lacked.

"It was already bad before your sarcasm, Gregson." The big DI responded cooly, smiling despite himself. Gregson was the youngest of their group, and, though he was a media darling for his looks and great charm, he was slightly less experienced than Astley and Lestrade. The odd, crazy, family-like rapport the DIs had formed in Scotland Yard featured the two senior Detective Inspectors as sort of older, brotherly mentors to the other two; though both Harding and Gregson were skilled in their own right.

But right now, they were all on edge.

"How's the evacuation going?" Hannah asked, and Astley looked to Greg, who looked over at Sergeant Dunivan.

"We're almost done," She told the DIs breathlessly, "Whole building should be clear in the next half hour."

"We may not have that kind of time." Lestrade replied. "See if we can do better." She nodded and raced off. Any further discussion, however, was interrupted by a commotion farther off. Hearing a familiar voice rising above the others, Lestrade groaned, and headed for the knot of people. He knew Astley was following him without looking back. "Alright, alright. What's going on here?" As he had expected, Sherlock Holmes, John Watson at his elbow, burst from the crowd of people.

"Lestrade!" The DI groaned again.

"Not a day goes by he doesn't turn up yelling my name..." He muttered to Astley, who had halted beside him. When Lestrade stepped forward, however, the other man stayed where he was; several spontaneous arrests, not to mention drug charges, had dug a deep rift between Nathan Astley and Sherlock Holmes. "What do you want?" He demanded when the consulting detective reached him.

"There's a file I need from that building, and your people won't let me in."

"Maybe if you'd stopped and listened for a few moments, you'd have caught onto the whole bomb thing."

"Oh. That. I find it to be statistically unlikely that it would go off in the part of the building I was in. Besides..." He squinted at the City Hall, "If some wanted to place a bomb... It would be there, there, there, and maybe there." He pointed to different places in the building as he spoke. "So I should be fine." Lestrade shook his head.

"Except you'd be in violation of the law. No one goes in there except police." He deliberately ignored Astley's muttered comment of 'wouldn't be the first time.'

"And if I told you lives might depend on it?"

"You don't care about that sort of thing."

"You do."

"It doesn't change the circumstances." Sherlock pouted, or rather, did that thing he did when he didn't get his way. Lestrade sighed, realising he would never get Holmes out of here without that file. "Alright, tell you what. I'll get it for you. What file are you looking for?"

"I'll know it if I see it."

"I thought as much. Listen, since **I'm** going to be getting it, **I** need to know what it is." Sherlock frowned, but from looking between the two DIs, he quickly realised that he wasn't going to get anywhere with arguing.

"Fine. Just stay on your mobile once you're in. I'll give you instructions from there."

"Whoop-dee-doo." Growled Astley, but everyone else ignored him again. Lestrade nodded, then moved back through the crowd of officers towards the building. Astley shot Sherlock a glare. John tried to subtly wedge himself between them, but then Sherlock's phone rang.

"Well?"

"Alrigh t- they wanted to keep it hidden, so it will be in some low-level office, not a higher up. Try the first floor, especially in the back." While he prattled away, John was shunted over near Astley by the crowd. Both were silent for a long time before Astley suddenly spoke, surprising him.

"Greg said you're a soldier." The doctor blinked.

"I am. I mean, I was." Astley gave him a slight, lopsided grin.

"So was I. Sergeant. Gulf War, and a couple other small things." John had to smile back, and shook the big man's hand when he held it out.

"Captain." He explained, and Astley nodded.

Meanwhile, Sherlock was still talking Lestrade's ear off via mobile.

"The other option is that it's in a completely unrelated office." Inside, Lestrade paused outside of a door.

"Assistant Director of Public Works?" There was a pause as Sherlock thought.

"... Possibly. Check it out." Lestrade opened the door, stepping into the room cautiously and flicking on the light. Then he stopped. Sherlock frowned at the sudden silence. "Lestrade? Did you find it?" Lestrade took a deep breath.

"No." He said, simply, then: "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock heard the ticking on the other end right before it stopped.

"No..." He whispered, then whirled around to look at the building.

The lower left corner erupted into flames and smoke.

"Lestrade?" Sherlock bellowed into his phone. "**Lestrade**?!" If he yelled loud enough, maybe he could will the explosion to another part of the building. Get his **friend** out of danger. He gave up on the mobile, taking a step toward the now-burning building, shouting one last time, at the top of his lungs.

"**LESTRADE**!"


	3. Almost

_This chapter is a little better, as is the next one, in my opinion. So, should I continue this? Do you want to know what the culprit is doing? Do you want to who it is? And do you want to know what the hell information is being given to Sherlock? And do you want to know if I __**seriously**__ just killed Lestrade off? Okay, you don't have to answer all those questions, but I'd like to know what people think._

_Please?_

* * *

Sherlock stood there aghast, allowing the phone to slip from his fingers to the ground. He went through the math again and again in his mind, trying to find some loophole, some way that Lestrade could have made it out in time. No matter what way he looked at it, however, there was absolutely no opportunity. Finally, he stopped going over the numbers and just stared at the ravaging flames, his expression blank and horrified.

Sherlock's reaction was enough for Astley.

"Officer down, officer **down**!" He yelled, going into an authoritative mode. "I need that under control **now** so we can get in and check for injured!" John, ever the soldier, recovered from his own shock quickly, shoving it down, and hoping it wouldn't resurface any time soon. He shoved his way through the rushing crowd to Sherlock, grabbing his elbow.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" He shook him a little, but Sherlock showed no sign he felt it. "Sherlock, you need to sit down. Sherlock!" The sound of a car pulling up made him look over his shoulder. Another police car skidded to a halt, and two people got out. One was a petite blonde woman who looked more like a fashion model than a police officer, right down to her clothes. Her bright blue eyes were wide as she stared at the smoke, manicured nails fiddling nervously with her braid. The other, a man, was about the same age, and taller, despite the woman's two and a half inch heels. He was handsome, with messy black hair and dark brown eyes. Still, there was an air of common sense about him, and his skin was darkened by too much time in the sun. Despite the height of the woman's shoes, they were dashing over to Astley as quickly as John had bee-lined for Sherlock - which is to say, pretty fast.

"Astley!" Yelled the man, causing the large DI to turn. Both the younger officers stopped when they saw the lines of panic around his eyes and mouth. Seeing Astley in distress, the woman began searching faces in the crowd, looking, John presumed, for Lestrade. Seeing her look, Astley shook his head, his eyes straying back to the now-shrinking fire. The other two followed his gaze, taking in the destruction. "... There?" Asked the man, his voice quiet now, sounding like he was about to choke. Astley nodded.

Then the three of them just stared at City Hall.

"Tell me three things I want to hear." Metropolitan Police Commissioner Kenneth Winters announced, approaching the building the three DIs had stationed themselves outside of. Gregson was pacing the sidewalk, occasionally rifling a hand through his black hair. Astley was leaning on the car, arms folded tightly while Harding sat on the hood, gazing sadly down at her feet. There was a pause before Hannah answered.

"No civilians were killed. We have a few injuries, but St. Barts tells they'll live." Winters nodded.

"That's one." Winters said, holding up a finger.

"We're certain there are no more bombs in the building. Out of ten, only half detonated at all." Put in Gregson.

"Two."

"Officer in the ICU pulled through." Astley grunted, unlocking his jaw. The Commissioner held up a final, third finger.

"Three. Okay, hit me." The two younger DIs looked at Astley.

"... On top of the two bomb squad members killed when the bomb they were dismantling went off..." He took a deep breath. "... We lost Detective Inspector Lestrade." Winters took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if he were in pain.

"... How?"

"He was in a room with a bomb when it went off. We found a body we think might be his, but it's pretty badly burned. Dental records won't cut it." Winters ran his tongue over his teeth.

"... Why was he even in the building in the first place?" At the question, all three officers raised their heads, their eyes filled with a mixture of blame and pity, to the steps of the building.

Sherlock sat there, John beside him.

"... Oh." Was all Winters said.

"Sherlock, this is **not** your fault." John told his friend quietly. "I mean, not even **you** thought there would be a bomb in that part of the building-"

"I should have." Sherlock snapped. Relieved that the Detective was at least **talking**, if not being sensible, John pressed on.

"Don't be stupid. There was no way you could have known. No way **any** of us could have known, okay? You had nothing to go on. It was **chance**, Sherlock."

"I don't believe in chance." John groaned.

"Look, he knew what he was doing. He's a **Detective Inspector**, for god's sake!" He stopped, realising what he'd said. "... He was. Sorry." Movement attracted the doctor's attention, and he looked up to see the Commissioner standing nearby. He patted Sherlock on the shoulder, then stood and moved over to the older man, who held out a hand.

"Police Commissioner Ken Winters."

"Dr. John Watson." They shook, and Winters looked over his shoulder at Sherlock.

"... How's he doing?" John pressed his lips together.

"He's... Coping. Slowly. I think." The Commissioner nodded, a bit of silver hair falling into his face before he brushed it back.

"We all are." He sighed. "Lost one of my four best hands..." He looked back at John. "He have any idea who did this?" John shook his head. Winters nodded understandingly again, but the doctor heard him mutter 'Damn' softly. He clapped John on the shoulder and moved past him, going over to stand near Sherlock, who did not look up at him. "Holmes." He said gently, then, when Sherlock didn't respond, added a sense of urgency. "Holmes!" The Detective raised his head, but still wouldn't look up. Winters crouched down. "Listen. As Commissioner, I'm supposed to tell you you have no place at a crime scene. That this is a violation of the law, and that you're not to get involved with the case." He sighed through his nose, hanging his head. "But as Greg's friend and mentor... You find who did this? Give him a good thrashing from me." He gripped Sherlock's shoulder gently, giving it a kind shake, then stood and moved back to the DIs, talking to Astley. John moved back over to Sherlock.

"Did... We just get permission to screw around with a police case from the Commissioner himself?" Sherlock sat still as a statue for another moment, then raised his head slightly.

"... He's right."

"Sorry?" He scrambled to his feet quickly.

"**Think** John. If anyone's going to catch this culprit, it's me. Obviously, whoever he is, he's almost as good as Moriarty." John suppressed a shudder at the name. Moriarty was **not** an experience he wanted to relive.

"Almost?"

"Almost." Said Sherlock, dashing off no more explanation. Hurrying after him, John reflected that Winters hadn't just made a smart decision about bringing the criminal to justice. He'd known that the one thing Sherlock could want in this situation was to hunt down the man (or woman, he reminded himself) that had caused Lestrade's death. The Commissoner had just handed it to him in a way that wouldn't offend Sherlock, wouldn't imply Winters thought he was getting 'sentimental.' At that moment, the doctor caught the Commissioner's eye, and the older man smiled slyly and winked at him. John grinned back.

The man knew Sherlock almost as well as he did.

Almost.

* * *

Somewhere in the poorer parts of London, five people hovered nervously around an abandoned warehouse, four men and a woman. They all turned to look when the door opened, the one who had been circling the large, circular centre of the building coming forward to meet the newcomer.

"I just got off the phone." He said quietly. "You were right. It's their work." The woman came over in squick, nervous steps.

"But..." She protested desperately. "They... They **couldn't** have found us here! It's been nearly twenty years! That's why we settled down! We thought we'd be safe!" The other three men had hovered over to join them.

"No one is ever safe from them." Commented one of them in a dreary voice.

"I say let them come."

"No one was asking you."

"Aw, c'mon. It's not so bad. 'Sides, we should give them as could as we got-"

"That's just stupid."

"But it could work."

"There's no way it could-"

"Stop!" They all looked at the man who had come through the door. "Perhaps it's true. Perhaps we got too comfortable after all this time. But now that time is over. We are faced with something that could very well spell death for all of us if we're not careful." They all listened to him with rapt attention. "Alert the others. They need to know we've been found out. Get word out however you can, but keep an eye out and don't raise suspicion." They all nodded. "There's one more thing. If any of you want to walk out now, you can. I'm the one they want most. hey may let you come back lightly." There was a moment of silence.

"Don't be daft." Said the man who had first spoken. "We've come this far with you, and you haven't led us astray."

"We stay." Said the woman, and there was murmured agreement. The man swallowed.

"I... Thank you. I don't deserve your loyalty, but thank you." They all turned to go when the woman stopped again.

"And the information?" The man nodded.

"Like I told you before: When the time comes, give it to Sherlock Holmes."


	4. You're A Marked Man, Alecsandar

_Okay, so. Here's a little check in with our lovely culprit. Yes, this guy is the culprit. I don't intend to make a secret about that. So... Uh... I __**think**__ people are reading this, though no one has given me any indication of it yet. Okay, maybe one person. Thank you for favouriting me!_

_I realise this is short, but this is just a little snippet. If I should you all he was doing, it would ruin the suspense. There will also be a few flashback chapters that will be carefully arranged to not ruin everything. I hope._

_Please, talk to me? About this? Should I continue?_

* * *

Jacob, tall, muscular and blond, was unpacking in a posh hotel room. On the bed sat a small, thin screen, bearing the Mother's face.

"This was not in your orders."

"You told me to get his attention. Consider his attention gotten." Her lips twisted.

"Yes. You also killed two innocents, and you could have-"

"Relax. He wouldn't go down so easily. Not the man **I** know."

"You think you know him better than I do?" There was a challenge in her voice that he registered just in time.

"... No. You're his sister." He continued going through his suitcase.

"You'll have Sherlock Holmes to deal with." She pointed out. "I don't think he'll cause trouble, though. Not even Moriarty could best **us**." She sighed. "Any sign of the other runaways?" He thought about it for a moment.

"A little. There's a bar called Callooh Callay where one of the bartenders looks to be one of ours, as well as a DI in Greenwich. There's a vet with offices near the station that I'm looking into." She nodded.

"If we can finish this, after twenty years of searching, it would be a great day for the Academy." He smiled, but it was not a good one. Rather, it was cold, cruel.

Psychotic.

"I live to serve, my Mother."

"I'm sending Hime Yamamato and a few others down to assist you. Do not fail me." He chuckled madly.

"Oh, I won't." He reached into his bag and drew out a collection of carefully sharpened knives, palming them expertly. "You know my skill set." The screen flickered out. Jacob twirled one of the knives through his fingers before stabbing it hilt deep into the hotel table, his smile becoming a grin. Then he spoke to someone who wasn't there;

"You're a marked man, Alecsandar."


	5. Two Black Diamonds

_Aaaaaand... Taadaa! I have too much time on my hands! Here we are with more insanity that I still don't know if anyone cares about! Passive aggressive? What's passive aggressive?_

_Anyway. Here we go with the introduction of some characters, Sherlock being bitchy, and a dead body, not to mention a dramatic revelation. How fun is that?_

_Should I specify that I am (le gasp) asking for reviews? Please? If you love me? If you hate me, you don't have to say anything. People hating on me makes me cry._

* * *

"Sherlock, where exactly are we?" John asked for the fifth time as Sherlock told the cab to stop in front of a quaint, white house somewhere outside London.

"We are visiting the aggrieved." The Detective announced, striding up to the door and knocking unceremoniously on it. It opened a crack, the chain of the lock visible, stretched across the opening. The woman who peered out was thin and blonde, looking to be in her late thirties. She had blue eyes and sharp features, arched eyebrows that lent a hint of attitude to her face.

"What are you doing here?" She demanded of Sherlock, her mouth twisting with dislike.

"I'm terribly sorry, are we interrupting a meeting with your **boyfriend**?" Sherlock snapped sarcastically. The woman flinched. "Honestly, Emilia. They haven't even identified your husband's **body** yet." John was struck by how utterly rude Sherlock was being-then again, the woman, Emilia, hadn't exactly said 'Good evening.'

"If you **must** know, Kyle isn't here." She hissed back. "You still haven't told me what you want."

"I need to talk to you."

"Oh? You're finally **deigning** talk to **me**? A woman you **despise**?" Sherlock scowled.

"Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't be."

"Good!" She snapped, and slammed the door closed in his face.

"For **his** sake, Emilia." He said suddenly, his voice softening a little. "I'm trying to find his **killer**!" There was a moment of stillness, and John was certain they were being ignored; then, suddenly, the door opened all the way, and Emilia stood to the side, allowing them to enter the house. It was pristine place, smelling a bit like waterlilies-it occurred to John that it looked a little like something off a sitcom, but he didn't say anything about that.

"Nice place." He told Emilia politely as she followed them into the den. She sat quickly in a navy blue armchair while he sat on the couch and Sherlock paced. They were silent for a long moment before Emilia spoke.

"Well, you said you wanted to talk." Sherlock didn't even look at her.

"Did Lestrade talk to you about the bomb call?" She stared at him.

"**You**, of all people, should know we were hardly on speaking terms."

"But he did, didn't he? 'Hardly.' You were still **speaking**." He began circling her like a vulture. "Then again, I suppose a bomb is a way to get someone out of the way and avoid suspicion. Where does Kyle work again? An electric company?" Emilia shot to her feet.

"Kyle has nothing to do with this!" Sherlock turned to face her.

"Oh? Because-"

"Uh, excuse me?" They both looked at John. "I'm just curious... Who is Kyle? And what is the connection to the bombs here?" The other two relaxed their tense positions.

"... My name is Emilia Cooper." Emilia explained. "I am... I **was** Detective Inspector Lestrade's wife." Suddenly, John understood.

"Ah. I see." She sat back down.

"We were in the process of going through a divorce when... When..." She put her head in her hands. Sherlock scoffed.

"If you're going to act this way about it, you shouldn't have done it in the first place." Sherlock growled, and Emilia winced.

"... Yes." Emilia said slowly. "He **did** call me about the bombs. Said to keep the kids out of central London until it was done." Now John was taken aback again.

"I-I'm sorry. **Kids**?" As if in answer, the sound of small feet came pounding up the front steps.

"Mom! Mom!" Shrieked a girl's voice. "You'll never guess-" At that moment, two children - one about ten, the other seven - burst into the room. The girl was in the lead, and froze when she saw John and Sherlock. Her little brother ran into her back, peering around her. She was thin, like her mother, with straight brown hair, large brown eyes, and dimples. Her brother's eyes were blue, and his hair was lighter and had a wave similar to Emilia's. Both their mouths hung open for a moment, then the girl dashed over to Sherlock, seizing his hand. "Are you Sherlock Holmes? Ohmigod! Dad told us about you! Didn't he, Turner?" She glanced over at her brother, who nodded nervously, clutching a stuffed elephant. Not as excited about the visitors as his sister was, he wandered over to his mother and put his head in her lap. Emilia reached out and stroked her son's hair gently, smiling a little. The girl rolled her eyes, turning back to Sherlock. "I'm Adele!" She cried brightly. "Adele Cooper-Lestrade. I read your website-"

"Adele!" Interrupted Emilia. "Greg and I **told** you-"

"-But it's **science**, Mom!" Sherlock was staring at Adele like she was some sort of fantastical creature. "I did a project about it! Can I show you?" When Sherlock didn't answer, just staring at the girl's glowing, eager face, John stepped in.

"Yes, you can." Sherlock shot him a look that seemed to be reading 'Et tu, John?' but John just smiled and waved as he was dragged upstairs by the ten-year-old. John settled back on the sofa while Emilia laughed softly.

"I'm sorry. I should have mentioned that Adele's a huge fan." John waved a hand.

"It's fine." They were silent for a moment. "I... I'm sorry. For your loss." She smiled sadly.

"Thank you, Doctor." He frowned, then slapped his forehead.

"Of course. Lestrade's wife. And you know Sherlock. Of course you know I'm a doctor." Turner crawled into her lap as they sat quietly again.

"He talked about you two a lot - when we met to exchange the kids, when we happened to run into each other... He liked you both." John nodded understandingly, looking at his feet.

"Right..." He looked sideways at her. "Um... **Do** you know anything that might help us catch who did this?" He thought he saw her shift uncomfortably, but it was gone in a moment, and attributed it to too much time with Sherlock.

"... No. No, I'm afraid I don't." At that moment, Adele burst back downstairs with Sherlock, exuberant. "Mom! He said it was 'impressive!'" Sherlock came in behind her, rubbing the back of his neck, looking embarrassed. Adele jumped up and down in the centre of the room, clapping her hands together. "Oh, I'm so **excited**! Are you two going to come by again?" John looked at Sherlock and smiled, nodding to the girl.

"I think we will." She beamed.

"Really? Yay!"

"Adele..." Her mother said gently. "Don't you think you should say hello to Dr. Watson, too?" Adele blushed, spinning on her heel to face John, she snapped her arms to her sides an bowed.

"I'm very sorry, Doctor. I got very excited. Please except my hello and apology, and know I read your blog as well." John saw Emilie frown, and knew she was going to be watching the girl's internet use very closely from now on. Sherlock moved to the door.

"Well, we'll be going." John looked confused, glancing between the Detective and Emilia.

"I thought you wanted to-"

"We're going!" Knowing that tone, the doctor stood quickly, nodded to the woman and her children, and followed Sherlock out the door.

"What was that about?" He asked when they were out of earshot.

"She knows something. I'm not sure what she knows, but she knows **something**. He told her something important, but she's trying to hide it even after he's dead. So what does that mean? Either it's a truly terrible secret, or she has some motive for keeping her mouth shut that wasn't her husband. I need more information before I come back to her." John raised his eyebrows as a cab pulled up in front of them.

"What about Adele's project?"

"Hm?"

"Adele. Lestrade's daughter. She showed you something?"

"Ah, yes. she did some sort of school thing analysing the process of deductive reasoning. It was surprisingly well done." John chuckled.

"Just what the world needs, a female, ten-year-old **you**."

"I agree. The world **does** need it." John rolled his eyes, refusing to respond. They rode in silence for awhile before Sherlock suddenly pelted forward and bellowed "Stop!" The cab skidded to a halt, and the Detective scrambled out, rushing towards something John didn't see. By the time he caught up with him, Sherlock was crouched by a statue, looking at the cement.

"Sherlock?"

"Someone was watching us." His friend said. "I saw her behind here."

"Her?"

"Yes." Suddenly, something caught Sherlock's attention. The colourful card had been dropped in the shadows of the statue, which was probably why it's owner hadn't noticed it. He lifted it carefully, looking at both sides; it was written entirely in Japanese. John groaned.

"Don't tell me. She dropped that?" The Detective stood, examining the card in the light.

"So it would seem..."

He kept staring at it all the way back to Baker Street, right up until they walked up to the door and found it unlocked. Exchanging a glance, they both rushed in. Mrs. Hudson was visiting a friend that afternoon, so it was unlikely for her to be home, thankfully; the whole flat was trashed.

"What were they looking for...?" Sherlock wondered, picking his way through the mess from room to room. "There's nothing missing!" He called to John finally. Whatever they wanted, they didn't find it."

"Maybe that's because they looked somewhere else." John turned, and Sherlock came back into the front room to look at Detective Inspector Astley, who was standing in the doorway, arms folded.

"What do you mean?"

"About two hours ago, ten hours after the bombing, someone hacked into the Metropolitan Police Database."

"That's not hard to do." Astley ignored Sherlock's comment.

"We traced their trail, and guess whose file they went straight for?" He held up a printed sheet. "**Lestrade's**." Sherlock frowned, wading through the mess to take the papers. John looked at the DI.

"Was his wife's address in there?" Astley shook his head.

"It's not there in case something like this happens. For officers who have families, if criminals get their addresses..." He trailed off. "So far, we haven't seen anything, but I thought you might be interested in the little message they left." John trudged over to stand beside Sherlock. The pages were of Lestrade's online file, but someone had changed all of the text into one single sentence:

Sie sind ein gekennzeichneter mann, Alecsandar.

Sherlock instantly rounded on Astley.

"Was there anything else? Any record of a German bomber in **any** of the police records?" Astley was already shaking his head.

"Holmes, you **know** that would take ages. We may not have that kind if time. This person has resources." Astley was shifting his weight back and forth, scuffing his foot. Sherlock looked slowly over the papers at him. Astley didn't miss it. "Oh for... You're doing it again." Sherlock lowered the sheets, eyes narrowed.

"Did you see him?"

"See who?"

"The **shooter** of course." John looked sharply at the DI, noticing what Sherlock had. There was a straight, horizontal tear in both Astley's coat and shirt just above his right elbow, and the doctor could see the scratch that the bullet graze had left. There were other near-rips and frayed threads from a few other close calls. Astley scowled.

"**No**." He snapped. "And besides, someone shooting at **me** is probably not related to the case. You know my arrest record - it was probably just one of my old enemies."

"**Or**," Sherlock pointed out, "It was the bomber trying to finish a job." The DI rolled his eyes.

"You're joking. If someone with enough power to plant ten lethal bombs in City Hall wanted to kill me, I'd be dead."

"Unless someone's protecting you."

"**That's** wild. Even for you." By this time, John had reached them.

"But you can't deny it's possible." Astley hesitated.

"... No. No. I can't. It's just ridiculous." John took the sheets from Sherlock.

"So is there anyone in the force named Alecsandar?"

"Not spelled like that, no." There was a beat before Astley suddenly frowned. "Wait..." He snatched the file back. "... That's his middle name." Sherlock was immediately curious.

"Whose?"

"**Greg's**. We called him 'GAL' a lot back when we were DCs." Sherlock's eyes widened.

"I don't get it." John murmured. "If this is a threat to Lestrade, why would they send it **after** he's dead?" A strange smile grew across Sherlock's face.

"Why indeed...? Detective Inspector, we need to investigate Lestrade's apartment." When Astley shifted uncomfortably John spoke up.

"If that's alright." The larger man swallowed.

"It's fine." He told them, and then headed out the door.

"Not very big is it?" John commented quietly, and Astley snorted.

"It's not like we're getting rich at Scotland Yard. You should see **my** place." John thought about the man's size, and felt decidedly sorry for him as the three of them poked around Lestrade's home. There was nothing particularly unusual about it, though it was oddly clean for a man going through a divorce, but John reminded himself that was stereotypical.

"Find anything?" He called to Sherlock.

"Not yet." Answered the Detective. "Other than the place being typical of Lestrade, there's no - wait. Someone broke in here."

"What?" Astley demanded, making his way over to Sherlock, who was crouched by a window. The DI looked out of it. "No fire escape on this side. What have we got, a monkey?" Sherlock was busy following some trail only he could see towards the bedroom. Astley went after him while John continued to look around in the front room. He paused when something on the wall that wasn't part of the peeling wallpaper caught his eye. Someone had hung a picture over it, but it was poking out from behind the frame. He carefully lifted the photograph off, and was confused by what he found.

Someone had spray-painted a solid black diamond onto the wall.

"Sherlock?" He called. "Sherlock, I found something."

"Good." His friend responded with odd cheer. "So did we."

John knew **that** tone of voice. He headed for the other room quickly.

The body was slumped on the floor, forgotten. His head was lying at an odd angle, indicating a broken neck. The man was thick set, with red hair and heavy freckles, wearing a ruffled black suit.

"Our intruder." Sherlock explained as John came in. He was leaning over the dead man while Astley stood nearby with his arms folded. "He got into a bit of a scuffle with someone." John came over and crouched beside the body as well.

"Several broken bones. Quite the scuffle." Sherlock nodded, frowning. "What is it?"

"What?"

"You're frowning."

"So?"

"So? You're frowning, and you're not going on about what this guy ate for lunch last week. What's wrong?"

"I can't."

"I'm sorry?"

"Other than the fact that he just recently got his clothes laundered, both he and his attacker knew what they were doing, and that he broke into the apartment, there's nothing to identify." John was staring at him.

"Well, um... What do you mean they knew what they were doing?"

"Look at the way his suit is ruffled around the arms. He must have come from behind and gotten his arms around his target's neck. The target doesn't seem to have been having it. Several broken ribs, an arm, and collarbone, not to mention the neck." Suddenly, he reached out and tilted the man's head slightly. Behind the corpse's left ear was an patterned, tiny black diamond tattoo. While not excessively intricate, it was still made up of lines that looped and twisted around each other. "What does this mean...?" John's eyes widened.

"A diamond... Sherlock, there's a black diamond painted on the wall in the front room. Someone put a photo over it, but it looks new." Sherlock looked up at him.

"Two black diamonds... There's no way they aren't connected." He looked at the man's hands, searching his pockets. "There's nothing on him he could have used to paint it... There could have been someone else here..."

"Oh, **screw** this." Astley broke in. "I have to call this in." Sherlock stood.

"Yes, of course. Whoever sent this man will not be pleased to learn of his demise. It's a good idea to be **very** public about this." Astley muttered something about 'Sherlock Holmes and his blasted high-and-mightieness' and slipped out of the room to make the call. Sherlock moved over to look at the phone sitting on the bedside table. "He's got missed calls, but no messages, and all the numbers were hidden... Can you get the information out of this phone?" He asked, when Astley came back in. The DI joined him.

"Yeah, probably. It'd take a bit, though. Say, here's a novel notion; how about you go home and rest?"

"I'm on a case."

"Allow me to rephrase that. Go home and sleep before I forcibly knock you out and remove you bodily from the scene." Sherlock stared at him for a moment.

"I don't-" Fast enough that not even John saw it coming, Astley hauled back and punched him, knocking Sherlock both onto the floor and out cold. The Detective Inspector shook his hand out, looking up at John's shocked expression.

"What? I warned him." He then proceeded to pick the Detective up in a way that, as a doctor, John knew was very dangerous for his back, and walked out of the room. As the sound of police sirens pulled up out front, John took one last look around the room before following. Maybe Astley was right, and a night's rest **would** help them solve the mystery of the two black diamonds...


	6. Memories And Snow

**_How better to follow up a long chapter with an extremely short one? Have a flashback!_**

**_WARNING: There's going to be some violence in the next chapter. And someone dying._**

* * *

_Snow drifted down onto the stony cliffs, the black stone castle rising above the white, blurred horizon. Lights flickered faintly at it's windows, and it stood like a dark ghost in the blizzard._

_"It's been awhile since we've had twins here." The man had a heavy accent - something from one of the countries crammed under Russia's belly. The two children, a brother and sister no older than three, sat close together, clutching each other's hands. The man turned back to them, smiling. "From here on out, I am your Father, no matter what. You do as I say, and you never question me." The two looked at each other._

_"But-" The boy began, but the man's hand shot out, striking him across the face. When he teetered, another, thinner man standing in the back of the room dove forward, catching him before he fell off the stool he was perched upon._

_"Careful now." The thin man said, his voice bearing a fading French accent. "The Father can get a little-" He noticed the Father glaring at him. "... Sharp." The boy inched closer to he thinner man, who laid a gentle hand upon his shoulder. The Father groaned, but turned away, allowing it._

_"Whatever. From this day onward, you two, Katharine and Alecsandar, are children of Shadow Diamond Academy._

_Forever."_


	7. Mother Bear

_Lighting Shadowfire, I love you. Thank you, thank you for reviewing this! I have hope!_

_Also, the other people who favourited/followed me: crexy and melrose105. You guys rule. And, in my opinion, if you're reading this, you also rule. Hell, I'm in a good mood. The entire world rules!_

_Anyway, now we shall have drama. Because I love drama. Except when it's my computer being a grumpy-gills. Anyway (again), onward._

* * *

Emilia Cooper paced her bedroom, chewing her nails. She'd tried calling Julian Black, a Greenwich DI friend of Greg's, whose number he had given her in case of emergencies, but hadn't gotten through. She needed to find one of them soon.

Sherlock Holmes was getting close.

She was certain he'd seen her discomfort when he and the doctor had come to visit. Hell, she thought even the **doctor** had seen her fidgeting uncomfortably. She sat down on the bed, rubbing her hands together.

Greg was gone. She was alone.

If they came for her now, they'd all die, for certain. But she dared not move too soon, worried she'd give them away. She got back up and began to walk again, this time chewing her lip as well. **Nowhere** was safe from these people. Hadn't he said that? Now she saw that it was true. She sighed, listening to the kids arguing downstairs in the kitchen.

The kids. God. The kids.

How much had they been through to protect them? How much had they told them? Was it right? She didn't know, but she had appreciated the honesty. She still did, and now she understood just how serious things were.

Now, now. It was all pointless. Even if she could go back and talk to herself, rewrite her past, she'd say yes all over again. Maybe not everything would be **quite** the same, but she knew she didn't regret her decision. Now she was just coping with it.

She ran down the list of numbers she might be able to call again, but none of them worked. What business did a DI's wife have calling a vet, a bartender, a demolition's expert, a soldier? If they didn't already, they'd know she was in on it. For the children's sake, she had to keep that from happening. God, the children.

But eventually, it wouldn't matter. They'd be so desperate for information, they'd come here. She had to make sure her family was safe before that happened.

As if in response, her phone rang.

* * *

"When'd you wake up?" John asked Sherlock when he came into the dinning room to find his friend crouched in and arm chair, pouring over the German-marked pages from yesterday.

"What do you mean?"

"Sherlock, Nathan punched you." Holmes's head shot up.

"Nathan? Why is he Nathan?"

"Because that's his first name."

"His first name is Detective Inspector." John groaned.

"Alright, so maybe the two of us got to talking while he carried you back here. Whatever." He looked at the papers. "Got anything?"

"Not yet. It's just a sentence."

"That's never stopped you before."

"True, but no one has ever used laundering and scrubbing to reduce amy analysis before. These people are **serious**, John."

"Yeah, I got that when they blew up City Hall." He sat down. "So do you think the message is directed **at** Lestrade, or just a reference to him? Because if it's the former, they're a little late."

"Or they don't believe he's dead."

"Sherlock, if this is the same people-"

"The fact that they seem to still be trying to contact him shows that for whatever reason, they think he lived through that explosion." John watched him for a minute.

"And now you think it, too."

"What?"

"I heard it, when you said that. You're following that train of thought because **you** want to believe he didn't die." Sherlock looked up at him.

"Of course not. I'm just being logical." John chuckled softly, but was cut off by Sherlock's phone ringing. The Detective grabbed it. "Astley? Yes, of course. We'll be right there." He hung up, leaping up to grab his coat. "They have DNA on our intruder."

* * *

Emilia hurried downstairs, rushing into the kitchen.

"Get your things together." She told her children, her voice thick with held back tears. "Like we discussed."

"But Mom-" Adele began, but Emilia cut her off.

"Adele, sweetie. This is real." Both children's eyes widened, and they dropped everything and raced for their rooms. Now Emilia blessed the many times they had practiced that, with all her heart. She dropped her own bag onto the table, swallowing and gazing at the photos on the fridge.

Speed was of the essence.

* * *

"Who is he?" Was the first thing Sherlock asked when bursting in on, not just a haggard-looking Astley, but Harding and Gregson as well.

"A one-year-old kidnap victim from Iceland." Gregson replied calmly. John looked between the young DI and the corpse.

"You're joking."

"Not at all." He held up a file, showing them a picture of a little, red-haired child. "Andri Einarsson. Went missing about thirty years ago when his mother was distracted at a park." Gregson looked back at the dead man. "The question is, what's he been doing for the past thirty years?"

"Why would a kidnap victim from Iceland turn up **here**?"

"Beats me."

"Anything on the tattoo?" Sherlock asked. Harding shook her head.

"Nothing. It doesn't appear to be a symbol we're aware of."

"Coroner says that the guy's in perfect physical condition. He's incredibly healthy and fit. Likes he's been going through some sort of insane boot camp." Sherlock nodded, leaning over the body again. "Still, someone snapped his bones like twigs." John shuddered, realising how much force that must have taken, even if the person knew anatomy enough to do it in the easiest way possible. "What's more," Astley went on, "Is that it was quick. Like an instinctive reaction."

"Most people getting attacked have the instinct to fight back." Sherlock pointed out. All three DIs just gave him looks that asked if he really felt he needed to point that out.

"So someone who knew exactly what they were doing. Like a hitman?"

"Killing another hitman?" They all looked at Sherlock again. "That's what this man has to be. He immediately went with the method that would best suit his body type. He didn't take chances, going straight for a kill. His problem was that his superiorly capable target had the same idea."

"So... What, we have two hitmen running around Lestrade's apartment now? How did the second one get in?"

"There were no other signs of forced entry. Maybe someone let him in?" Sherlock straightened.

"That reminds me. What did you get from the phone?" Astley half grinned.

"A **lot**." He announced, going to the computer. "Guess who called the apartment three hours after I called her with the news?" A picture of Emilia Cooper popped up on the screen. Sherlock came over.

"How many times?"

"**That's** the cake. **Seventeen**."

"Seventeen calls? Even denial doesn't last that long." Astley nodded.

"She left one message." He hit a button, and Emilia's voice came out of the speakers:

"Hello, it's me. Astley called and said that... Look, I don't know what's going on, but I need an explanation. Please, call me? Is there something I need to do? I know we talked about this but... I'm scared. Really. I am. Please. I'm begging you."

the call ended.

"Who could she have been calling?" John wondered, then groaned when Sherlock opened his mouth. "Oh, not again with this theory!" Sherlock glared at him. Gregson frowned.

"What theory?"

* * *

Her mind was racing as she helped the children get their coats and backpacks on.

"Use the back door. You know where to go, and I **will** meet you there." She kissed them both on the head, Turner still clutching his stuffed elephant.

"Mom, how do you know it's real?" Adele asked softly, and Emilia's tears spilled over unwillingly.

"Mother knows, sweetheart. Mother always knows." She hugged them both tightly, then herded them to the door, making sure they were out of sight before going back for her own bag and coat in the kitchen.

Just then, a motorcycle and a car pulled up outside.

* * *

"Still alive? How is that even **possible**?" Astley demanded, and John nodded.

"That's what I said. That is **exactly** what I said." Sherlock groaned.

"If the culprits think that it could be true, we should at least **consider** it!"

"He's got a point." Gregson broke in. "The hacking of the file, the dead man at his place... They're really out for Lestrade. Why bother if he's dead?"

"Because they're crazy?" Astley snapped. "I don't know!"

"What do you think, Hannah?" Gregson asked the tiny woman behind Astley. "You haven't said anything yet."

"I think..." Harding began. "I think that since they've done so much to go after him... We should check on his wife." There was a moment of dawning apprehension.

"Aside from the fact that she called his house some many times, people with enough fire power to pull of this insanity should have no problem getting her address." Astley muttered. "Let's go." Sherlock opened his mouth, probably to say he'd take a cab when Astley turned and loomed over him. "I will punch you again and drag you to the car. Get in it on your own." Having learned from the last punch, Sherlock shut his mouth and followed the others out.

* * *

She almost made it out. Making the decision to drop her things, she dove for the side window.

The blond man who broke down the door managed to grab her feet, tossing her into the kitchen counter. She scrambled to her feet, keeping her back to it.

_Don't let them sneak up on you; they're good at that_.

"What do you want?"

"Where's your husband?" The man growled as a thin, Asian woman carrying a machine gun came in beside him. Others, some armed, some not, began wandering the house.

"Hopefully not where the likes of **you** can find him!" Emilia snapped. The man scowled, grabbing one of the large kitchen knives from its holder and waving it in her face.

"Don't play dumb, Mrs. Cooper."

"... He was killed when a bomb went off near him in City Hall."

"We know you're lying."

"Why would I lie about something like that? It's not like I was **faithful** to him." There. She'd said it out loud. Now, if she had to die, she could. The blond looked around the room.

"There're a bunch of crayon drawings on the table."

"Abstract art. It's my new calling." She thought she saw the Asian woman smile. Then it vanished.

"And your kids?" God. The kids.

"What about them?"

"Where are they?" At that moment, one of their men appeared.

"My Brother," He said, clamping a fist to his chest, "The children are not in the house." The blond man turned back to her.

"You had a plan for this. You knew that one day we'd come. How much else do you know?"

"That I'm not afraid of you." And then, because he was uncomfortably close to her face, because he was using one of her best kitchen knives to threaten her, and because she was **really** done playing the terrified victim, she spat in his face. He jerked back with nothing less than a roar and then surged towards her again.

She was next aware of a sharp pain ing her abdomen.

* * *

To her credit, the woman fought. In fact, she fought as hard as the other one Jacob had done this to twenty years earlier, with the same ferocity of a mother bear defending her cubs. Her immediate response after the first stab was to go for his eyes with her fingernails, and she got several good scratches in. After the second, third, and fourth, she managed to get away from him, hurling a stool, but she was bleeding, and there wasn't much room for escape in that kitchen. When he caught up to her, she reciprocated tooth and nail until the fifteenth stab slashed an artery and she slid to the floor, bleeding. Jacob had only ever had so much fun in his life once before, with the warmth of blood running over his hands and the blade; he even enjoyed the fact that her only screams were ones fury and not fear.

Yes, he could see how someone could be attracted to this one, but he found her so much more interesting when she was covered in blood on the floor.

He had been vaguely aware of Hime at his elbow, shouting at him and trying to drag him back, but she was only a Third Status, and had no hope of holding back a Fifth. Besides, he wanted to leave a message for Alec. It wasn't until the woman was on the floor that the rushing excitement poured out of his ears and he heard Hime.

"You **idiot**!" She was shrieking. "We had nothing to gain by killing her! **Nothing**! This is what happened with those two police officers!" He shrugged.

"She spat at me." He realised that the Asian was staring at him in shock.

"That's not what this is about, is it? This is about-" One of the others appeared at the door.

"Brother, Sister! The police!" He turned back to her, raising his eyebrows.

"What do you know? Let's go." He jerked his head, and the other followed him to the door.

"I **will** report this to the Mother!" Hime shouted after him, but he ignored her. After all, she was only a Third Status...

* * *

As soon as they turned onto the street, it was clear something was wrong. The black van and motorcycle parked outside of Emilia's house did **not** be long there. As they pulled up, a knot of people burst out of the house, racing for the vehicles. Astley pulled off a rather amazing feat of diving out of the car before it fully stopped, pulling an automatic revolver out of his coat. Just then, a knife whizzed past his head, specifically designed for throwing. A tall, blond man stepped out from the others, another blade sliding into his fingers. Astley took the attack as an invitation to fire and did so, catching one of the other men in the leg.

They were very surprised when the guy just kept running.

The blond man kept throwing knives when a thin Asian woman appeared on the porch, holding a machine gun, throwing down a layer of fire to force them back before making a dash for the motorcycle. As the others piled into the van, the blond man hung back, Astley's gun trained on him. They remained like that for a moment before both reacting at the same time. The knife flashed through the air, faster than before, and embedded itself in Astley's left shoulder with a sickening sound, the force knocking the gun from his hand and making him stumble. Harding ran towards the weapon, diving for it as the woman on the motorcycle circled around to pull the man up behind her before going after the van. Hannah grabbed the gun, lifting it and firing at their receding backs. John couldn't tell if she hit anything from the distance they were at, but her concentrated expression was simply terrifying. After the car and bike disappeared, she lowered the gun, looking at Astley. He was kneeling on the pavement, holding his bleeding shoulder, but shook his head when Gregson started toward him.

"I'm fine, check on Emilia!" The other two DIs nodded and raced to the house, followed by Sherlock and John.

It was in vain, however, as all five of them already knew what they'd find...


	8. Poltergeist

_Here we are again, happy as can be... Oh, look, a dead body!_

_Yes, ladies and gentlemen, we hardly knew her. She got a whole chapter to establish herself, though._

_This one is kinda short. At least we all get to know what happened, and we get a dastardly cliffhanger regarding a certain piece of paper. I make no guarantees that it was not a poltergeist._

* * *

Emilia lay on her back in the kitchen, her hands folded gently over her stomach. The floor was slick with blood, and her clothes were covered in it as well. Gregson walked numbly in, dropping to his knees beside her, his face aghast. Harding stopped in the doorway and turned back - John heard her vomiting outside. The DI seemed to be making slow, mechanical movements as he pulled on gloves and checked the woman for a pulse, and John knew why.

Emilia had been an officer's wife; at least the other Detective Inspectors had to have known her.

He was assured of this when Astley insisted on being let in, the knife still deep in his shoulder, and he, too, knelt beside her; he knew not to touch the body, but his hand, the one not holding his own wound, hovered over hers, and his head dropped, his shoulders heaving once or twice. It seemed to take him a conscious effort not to break down in front of his subordinates.

"Fifteen times." John heard Sherlock mutter. "He stabbed her fifteen times..." There was, however slight, a note of horror in his voice, and John guessed this was because it was the first time something like this had happened to someone Sherlock **knew**. The Detective stepped carefully around the pools of blood, examining the floor and pulling one filched pair of gloves. Suddenly, he stopped and picked something up.

"Think we've got the murder weapon." He was holding a finely-made kitchen knife by the end of the handle, then dropping it into the evidence bag held out to him. Astley recovered, lifting his head.

"Should we assume this was the knife nut?"

"You mean the man who injured you? Yes, probably." Astley's lips twisted, and he shoved himself to his feet. Sherlock watched him, a little crease forming between his eyebrows at the larger man's obvious pain. The DI looked around the room, squinting.

"This was a violent fight." He said, nodding to an overturned stool. "She must have kept on resisting right up until..." He trailed off. "But she couldn't have fallen like that."

"Did they arrange her?" It seemed Detective Inspector Harding had found her stomach again. Gregson shook his head.

"Blood's still wet. She's been like this for several minutes at most. I don't think they had time before we showed up."

"So, who did?" Gregson didn't answer, noticing something tucked into the dead woman's hands. He slid it out gently.

It was a piece of folded paper, like the one's from the table in the middle of the room. He unfolded it, and they all watched as his eyes widened in surprise.

"Either we're going to have to start giving some real credence to that 'not dead' theory, or we have ourselves a poltergeist." He held up the open sheet. "This is Lestrade's handwriting." On the paper were two, simple lines:

_Has thou slain the Jabberwock?_

_I took the road less traveled on._

Sherlock shot forward and took the slight blood stained paper.

"There's not enough blood on it for her to have been holding it when she died." Harding commented, coming over to stand beside him. "And the writing definitely looks to be Lestrade's." Astley groaned.

"There are no such things as ghosts, okay? **Please** let this not be one of **those** cases?" Gregson tried to grin at him.

"Oh, come on, Nathan. Not even when they're leaving us notes?"

"A ghost did **not** leave that note! It's probably forged!"

"That **is** possible..." Murmured Sherlock. "Hm... Lewis Carroll and Robert Frost, but what are their **meanings**...?" John rolled his eyes.

"Oh, great. Here he goes again." The shock of the initial discovery finally wearing off, Gregson suddenly voiced a question they should have thought of sooner.

"Wait... Where are the kids?" The DIs looked at each other, and then flew into action, ordering a search of the house. Even Sherlock joined in, wandering from room to room and peering around things. Then Harding appeared from the children's rooms.

"Their backpacks are gone, as well as some clothes, toothbrushes, and hairbrushes, among other things."

"Could they have run?"

"That would indicate Emilia knew something was coming."

"Which means someone warned her. Mobile?" Gregson shook his head.

"We have it, sans memory card. That was removed."

"Probably by the person who positioned her."

"So it would seem that these two are the same person, trying to protect their identity, but from who? Us, or the people who killed Emilia?"

"Well-" Astley started, then gritted his teeth when he moved his shoulder the wrong way. Harding smacked her forehead.

"Here we are, going on about mobiles, and you still have a knife in your shoulder. I'll call an ambulance." She trotted out, despite Astley's protests about being fine. Gregson sighed.

"I'll get a spot out on Adele and Turner. If they ran, we can hopefully find them quickly." He followed Harding out. Astley chewed his lip unhappily.

"I do **not** like being coddled." He growled, shaking his head. "Gods, Emilia..."

"She went out fighting. That's something." John told the other former soldier, and Astley nodded. He started towards the door, then stopped, turning.

"Holmes." Sherlock looked up. "... When we find these kids... I have to tell my godchildren that both of their parents are dead. So long as I'm in charge of this case, you can walk all the bloody hell over it." Then he left, leaving both of them staring after him, very confused.

* * *

They were awakened by a small knock on their door. They had been out late the night before, and Kanti had the worst headache. So it was Gita who got up, pulling on her robe and going to the door, looking out through the peep hole. What she saw there made her fumble quickly with the lock and pull the door open.

The girl, no older than ten, had her brother by the hand, his other arm clutching a stuffed elephant.

"Mom told us to come here." Adele Cooper-Lestrade told Gita quietly. "She said it was real." The older girl's face drew together sadly, and she knelt down, putting her hands on the girl's shoulders.

"Don't worry, honey. It'll be okay." She pulled the child into a hug, yelling for her sister. "Kanti!" Her twin stumbled into the room, reacting with shock when she saw the siblings. Gita released Adele, standing. "We need to get them settled in." Kanti nodded, going to a door that was cleverly concealed by the wallpaper and pulling out a key. It opened onto another bedroom, with two beds similar to their own. They led the children in, helping them unpack and talking to them gently, despite Kanti's hangover. Turner attached himself to Gita, the quieter of the two, as she went to make cocoa, while Kanti sat on the bed, holding Adele and stroking her hair.

"Is Aunty here?" The little girl asked.

"She's in India right now, but she'll be home soon." Kanti promised. "You know how Aunt Ara is." The child nodded.

"'Kakkar family keeps its promises.'" She recited, and the older girl laughed. Then Adele got quiet. "... Mom's not coming, is she?" She asked. Kanti hesitated.

"I don't know, little sister." She said, holding her close. "I don't know."


	9. To England At Once

_Yet another short chapter, but it's always good to know what your Mother is doing, right?_

* * *

The Mother paced her office in fast, even steps. Hime's report of Jacob's abrupt slaughter of the woman had left her worried. She knew there was something wrong with Jacob - had known it for twenty years, but now it was becoming dangerous to the Academy. Back then, it had just been a newbie acting out; now, it was a veteran, a fully-trained disciple, killing for fun.

And breaking regulations.

She didn't trust him. She never had. Ever since the day she had walked in on her brother's four best friends and told them someone needed to find him in India and bring him back. They had all known what that would mean. Whenever anyone needed to be **dragged** back to the school, they were always severely punished. She had watched the conflict on most of their faces, seen the conviction as they all shook their heads.

All, that is, except for Jacob, who had volunteered.

From the looks they all gave him as he left the room with her, she had known they would never forgive him, and she had to agree. Anyone who was willing to betray a friend in that manner was dangerous.

Especially when the entire incident had ended with India's Prime Minister's daughter dead.

She crossed back to her leather cushioned chair, sinking into it and stroking her whip. Her eyes lifted to the face of her predecessor on the wall, staring down at her fiercely from his portrait.

"I won't let you down, Father." She told him. "I will bring them back. I will bring them **home**." Twenty years ago, he had once told her the age-old saying: _If_ _you want something done right, do it yourself_. The Mother gritted her teeth.

"I must go to England at once."


	10. The First Thumb Drive

_At long last, a moment of truth! HA Ha ha. Sherlock manages to figure out one of the poem lines! And what the hell is Jacob up to? Here you go!_

* * *

"Sherlock, if you stare at that piece of paper any harder, your eyes are going to bug out of your head." Sherlock was lying on the couch, holding the not-poltergeist's (especially if you asked Astley) message over his head, frowning at it.

"I'm just trying to **understand** it, John." He replied cooly. "Why poems? Why **these** two poems? What's special about them?" John rolled his eyes.

"I suppose eating is still out of the question?" When Sherlock ignored him, he sighed. "Right. Figured." As he went over to make his way around the insane things that tended to be in their refrigerator, he heard Sherlock muttering under his breath, reciting one of the poems to himself. Suddenly, he shot up off the couch.

"Callooh Callay!" John jumped, dropping a plate.

"Augh! What?" Sherlock was already pulling his coat on.

"'And, has thou slain the Jabberwock? Come into my arms, my beamish boy! Callooh Callay!'" John shook his head.

"I still have **no** idea what you're talking about, and there is **no** bloody way I'm 'coming into your arms.'"

"No, John. The **poem**. Callooh Callay is a **bar** in London that Lestrade sometimes visited. He knew one of the bartenders there. Come on, it closes in a few minutes." John blinked.

"Oh. Well, why didn't you just **say** that?"

* * *

Churchill Darke nodded a farewell to the other bartenders who had shared his shift, trying to tuck some of his thick, dark hair behind his ear, only to have the long strands fall into his face again. It wasn't quite raining, but the air was wet and dreary, sort of like his disposition. He checked his phone briefly before tucking it away. There had been nothing ever since the update on Emilia Cooper's death. He shuddered, reaching into his pocket and feeling for the small, round pill he always kept there.

_Better to die than be killed, better to be killed than taken back._

The young man swallowed, scuffing a thick-soled boot on the pavement before starting across the street. He was an unusual man, dressed like one of those 'goths' that so often appeared in pop culture. He wore a pair of black, fingerless gloves, a thick black choker, and pure black clothes. He was pale, and a trifle gaunt, a sort of permanent sadness in his expression. His dark brown hair hung like perfectly straight curtains around his thin face, accentuating his tired appearance. He walked with his head down in long, slow strides, alone amid the bustle of the street.

Which was why he was so surprised when he heard his name.

* * *

"Darke! Churchill Darke!" Sherlock called, shoving through the crowd to get to the black-clad man when he turned. When he stopped, John came to a breathless halt beside him. Darke frowned, confused, facing them. His breath back, Sherlock straightened. "Sherlock Holmes. We met during the investigation of the severed leg that turned up in the sewer of this street. I wanted to ask-" Sherlock suddenly stopped, noticing Churchill's expression. The bartender had been bewildered when he turned around, but now his expression was morphing into one of horror, he faltered a step backwards. "Mr. Darke..." He said, more gently than was his wont, and took a step forward, holding out his hands.

Apparently, that wasn't a good idea.

Churchill took off running, dashing his way expertly through the crowd, ducking under arms and dodging prams. Sherlock and John exchanged a look, and then took off after him as fast as they could. It surprised John how fast the thin man seemed to be, when before he had looked like a strong wind would snap him in half. They managed to stay behind him for at least half an hour until he vanished down an alley, taking another route before they could turn the corner. The two stopped, catching their breath.

"What do you think made him run?"

"I don't know. He seemed to be afraid of us." John brushed off his jacket.

"What do you know about this guy?"

"I met him during an investigation in the area. He's a friend of Lestrade's, works at the Callooh Callay. I remember noting that he seemed to be unusually quick at mixing drinks."

"Drinks?"

"**Slight of hand**, John. Not to mention a joke he made about poisoning people." They began trudging back toward a place where they could catch a taxi.

"Right. Any other people of interest?" Sherlock thought about it.

"There's someone else I met during that investigation. A Greenwich DI by the name of Julian Black - he's said to be the best shot in the area. Got a thing for firearms-" Sherlock suddenly stopped walking. "The tattoo."

"What?" The Detective was already slapping his forehead.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid, **stupid**! The **tattoo**! The one we found on the Einarsson! Black had a similar one on his neck!" He began fumbling with his phone, texting, then waiting. Nothing happened. "Alright then, Detective Inspector, ignore me for now." He tucked the phone away, walking even faster towards the street. "I'll make certain you **have** to talk to me soon..."

* * *

When they arrived back at the flat, Sherlock froze as soon as they were in the door, then raced upstairs.

Churchill Darke was sitting on the sofa, rubbing his hands together.

John came in behind his friend, frowning.

"I don't get it. Why run away from us and then come meet us at our flat?" But Sherlock was looking sideways at the man.

"... It wasn't **us** you were running from." Darke swallowed, but nodded.

"Yes. I'm sorry. I had to consider what would happen if they saw us talking."

"They." The bartender stood.

"A long time ago, Lestrade, as you know him, told that when the time came, I had to be sure to give this to someone. More recently, I was told to give it to you." From his pocket he pulled a small black thumb drive, holding it out to Sherlock, who took it hesitantly. Churchill stuffed his hands back in his pockets ambling past the Detective to look around the room. "... I suggest you don't look for me again after this. Until such a time as we can get this sorted out, I need to drop off the map." He made to leave, then stopped, turning back. "You ever have a pet?" The other two blinked.

"Sorry?"

"A pet. You know. An animal. They're kind of fun, 'cept for the fact that you gotta pay for their upkeep and all. Not to mention health." He looked directly at Sherlock. "There are only so many good vets in London these days." Then he left. Sherlock watched him go thoughtfully. Then he turned, crossed to his computer, opening the drive and plugged it in. When he clicked on it, the screen went black, words quickly follow:

_Collect all the pieces to open me_.

Underneath the words was the outline of a black diamond.

Sherlock ejected it, frowning, then looking after Churchill again.

"... A vet, hm?"

* * *

The darker alleys of London were practically empty, save for a few drug dealers and one or two drunks. Jacob looked out of place among them, striding through the shadows in a fine suit and pristine dress shoes. He stopped in front of an abandoned shop, where a shadowy figure was sitting on one of the rotted crates, turning his back and folding his arms.

"Before you ask, they don't know I'm here." The shadows moved slightly.

"How'd you know?" It whispered hoarsely.

"Because I know you." Jacob replied. They were silent for a moment. "You realise how foolish this is, surely. Did you think changing your name would throw us off? You cannot escape us, Alec."

"And yet I've been doing just that for twenty years." Jacob's teeth gritted.

"Listen to me. Your sister is coming here herself. **That's** how badly she wants this resolved. You can fix it now by giving up this diluted dream and coming **home**." The other man didn't answer, and Jacob's voice became venomous. "Is it for **them**? **Those** people?" No answer again. "Why don't I tell you about them? Right now, DI Christian Gregson is working unpaid overtime at the station. Detective Inspector Hannah Harding is on the tube reviewing the files. Nathan Astley is forcing the staff at St. Barts to let him check himself out. Commissioner Kenneth Winters is supervising the clean up of the remnants of City Hall. Molly Hooper is still in the morgue trying to see if there's somethings he missed in identifying a certain body. Sergeant Donovan and Anderson are over at her place. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are walking out of 221B Baker Street with the intention of catching a cab to Scotland Yard." As he spoke, the other man stood slowly, stepping forward and into the faint light.

"If you so much as **touch** **any** of them," Detective Inspector Greg Alecsandar Lestrade informed him, "You **will** regret the day you met me."

Even Jacob was afraid of the threat in his voice.


End file.
